Vol. 2, No. 1, Fall 1995
Tonatzin, Emanuel Martinez, 1992
In times of slavery an unspoken rule was that slaves were to remain illiterate. Slave holders thought that teaching a slave to read would make him or her an unfit slave.
Are we developing a new kind of slavery? Recent statistics from the Department of Education indicate that there are 40 million illiterate or barely literate adults in the United States. According to Ernie Sanchez from the Department of Labor, when one looks at issues in America such as domestic violence, poverty, poor employment and drug abuse the common denominator is usually illiteracy. The literacy of young adults has decreased dramatically in the last ten years. The United States was once the world leader in literacy. It is no longer.
Our children are now at a crossroads. They are being challenged from many different directions, assaulted by their peers, intimidated by the authorities and controlled by the media. What road will they take? They are our future and their next move depends on our move as parents, teachers, educational institutions and communities that care about improving the quality of life from one generation to the next. We cannot let our children become enslaved because of illiteracy. We need to give them the key of literacy so they can escape the regiment of poverty, abuse, prison and poor employment.
The staff of Compañero would like to bring
articles
to the forefront that encourage reading and create awareness of the
world
around us. We are soliciting articles that stir the imagination through
the written page rather than the remote control.
Charlene Garcia Simms, Editor
© 1995, El Escritorio
The 2nd Annual festival del los artes was the second Festival presented by HILO, Hispanic Initiative for Literacy Opportunities and El Escritorio Publishing and Research. The purpose of these Festivals is to showcase talented Hispanic, Mexican American and Native American artists, performers and artisans and promote the development of these various art forms in our community.
The event last year featured artists such as Dan Luna of Denver and sculptor Huberto Maestas of San Luis, Pat Mendoza and Calvin Standing Bear, story tellers and musicians, the Guadalupe Dancers of Pueblo and Lydia Solano, a local recording artist. Almost 1000 people attended the 1995 Festival.
This year's event will feature world renowned artist and muralist, Emanuel Martinez, national Flamenco and classical guitar recording artist, Ruben Romero, the Taos Flamenco Dance Company featuring nine to eleven year old Flamenco dancers, multi-talented storyteller and musician, Amaurante Montez, Austin Bent Box, a Southern Ute who crafts magnificant replicas of Ute clothing, utensils and art, and a number of local artists including musicians Carlos Crull, John Fujishiro and Gene Valdez presenting a Latin Jazz Extravaganza, Lydia Solano, a fast rising local recording artist and RéNesia Ransom, Miss American Co-ed Colorado.
Weaving a Tapestry of Knowledge
HILO, Hispanic Initiative for Literacy Opportunities is a non-profit corporation whose purpose is to offer opportunities to Hispanic, Chicano, Mexican American and Native American authors, artists, performers and others who focus on their communities unique character and culture. Funds are raised to publish new authors works, to exhibit beginning artists paintings, to provide a stage for aspiring performers and musicians.
HILO and El Escritorio are showcasing these talents to the entire community in addition to bringing established artists, authors and musicians to the community to show to our youth and others that it can be done!
This story may be more conjecture than fact, but I believe it can give us common ground from which to start dialogue.
Vast expanses of wind swept plains, snow covered mountains in the distance, blue skies and crisp white clouds slowly moving overhead set the scene. A large group of antelope dart from a nearby pond to the next ravine where they find protection from the more powerful and larger predators looking for a meal.
This was the home of early man.
A small group of people, clothed only with strips of animal skins, searching for anything to eat; small rodents, roots or even the larger antelopes darting from place to place.
This group, or tribe, were the first humans to inhabit the vast expanses of Asia. Having come from some unknown place, possibly central or southern Africa, they were to be among the first progenitors of modern man.
The demands of their environment, the limited resources of the plains, the growth of their populations, droughts and other natural disasters, created a situation that required they leave their homeland and travel to other places, looking for a better life.
Some of them ventured west, and traveled into the fertile region bounded by what we now know as the Nile and Tigris rivers, traveling up to 2,000 miles. Those who traveled to the "Fertile Crescent" found an area suitable for settling and eventually founded farms, villages, cities and great empires.
Others ventured further west and north, being halted only by the northern reaches of a great body of water, the Atlantic ocean, having traveled from 3,000 to 4,000 miles. These early wanderers found vast expanses of forest land and an area rich in game, but also full of danger.
East was the direction of another segment of this small group, penetrating deep into the interior of a land full of diversity and challenge. Many of this group went south and east and established villages and, later, developed the magnificent cities and societies of China and India, having traveled between 4,000 to 5,000 miles.
Others from this group, though, traveled north and east, continually challenged by the environment and the never ending expanses of forest and open space that lay ahead of them. These groups, over time, traveled thousands and thousands of miles until they reached another vast expanse of water, the Pacific ocean.
For some reason the group that went east and north chose to continue their trek and eventually found a passage way to an area of immense forests, unimaginable mountains and abundant game.
Many of those who crossed that land bridge and continued south settled in central Mexico. They traveled over 10,000 miles before they stopped to build villages and, eventually, cities and civilizations.
Others of this group traveled another 7,000 miles, for a total of 17,000 miles, to the tip of South America before they again were stopped by a great body of water, where the Atlantic and Pacific oceans meet.
This all happened in a time of between 10,000 and 50,000 years. The first humans to occupy North America could have been here as long ago as 30,000 years, if not longer.
It is amazing to think that some of these small groups of people traveled over 17,000 miles 30,000 years ago, on foot.
Distinctions between peoples have resulted after thousands of years of separate development. The differences in culture, appearance and language, to name a few, tend to make us forget an important fact about ourselves.
Somewhere, about 50,000 years ago, those who became the peoples of the Americas, of Europe and Africa, of Asia and Australia, were hunting together, sharing the same river valleys, the same paths, the same rituals and the same heritage.
Our outward differences cannot change the fact that
we
are all from the same small tribe.
© 1995, El Escritorio
by Eduard Terrones Simms
There are over 700,000 Hispanics, as defined by the Census Bureau, living in the region between the Denver and the Albuquerque metropolitan areas. This region is known to some as nuestra patria, our homeland. The vast majority of these individuals are either of Mexican, Spanish or Spanish and Native American descent
They constitute the largest single group with a common ethnicity in this region and are also the fastest growing. In 1990 the Hispanic share of the total population in this area was over 25%, with Hispanics being over 50% in a number of counties.
The land area of nuestra patria, when using county boundaries, amounts to over 58,000 square miles. In this region there is a bond of history and culture that spans thousands of years, for those that are of Native American descent, and for those of Spanish descent, at least 400 years.
Mi Patria straddles either side of I-25 and includes the San Luis Valley to the west and the Arkansas river valley east to the Colorado state line. The northern boundary is Greeley, near Denver, and the southern boundary extends to Socorro, south of Albuquerque.
The combined family income of Hispanic families in nuestra patria is over 5 billion dollars. The median age group of Hispanos in this region is about 28 years of age.
The forecast for the Hispanic community in this area is one of growth and increased influence. New Mexico will soon become the first state to have over 50% of it's population as Hispanic. Southern Colorado's Hispanic population will approach the 40% level.
In addition to numbers, Hispanics have provided a
cultural
richness and a link to a beautiful and vibrant culture that stretches
from
Point Barrow, Alaska to Tierra del Fuego, South America. Nuestra Patria
is unique and an important section of the American quilt.
© 1995, El Escritorio
As fast as the wind or faster-that was Cristina's goal as she ran. She normally walked home from school, but today was special; today called for running. Tonight she would get to see her father. She had looked forward to this day since last month. Now that school was over, she knew she would be seeing him very soon.
Tina ran to her house and flung open the screen door with such vigor that it hit the chair on the front porch with a loud "thud" followed by an even louder "smash" as the door slammed shut. Before anyone could yell at her, shouts of, "Is it time to go? Can we go now? Huh, huh," echoed through the house. Her abuelita (grandma) sat her down and explained that she had to wait until six.
The once quiet child was now filled with noise and stories of her father. Stories of how her father took her in when she was one month old. How she depended greatly on her dad and never strayed to far from his view. How when his friends showed up, she ran and hid behind his tree like legs. Stories of the giant man she called daddy were unable to keep her still. She bounced and finally settled down in front of the clock in the front room. Every time someone would pass she would ask "What time is it? Is it time to go?" Not wanting to listen to another thirty minutes of "Is it time, yet," her abuelita told her, "get in the car." As they drove through the east side of town where she lived, Tina couldn't help but look for her father. She never found him, but she always thought she would see him walking home. She knew where he was, but she still looked because she also knew where he should be...with her.
Arriving at the county jail, Tina ran and waited for her abuelita at the front entrance. They opened one door and then the other. Stepping onto the bright white tile floor, the smell of pine cleaner overtook her senses. Tina sat next to her abuelita waiting for the o.k. to go into the visiting room. She knew she must sit still, but she couldn't stop her legs from swinging back and forth under the big, cold chair.
"Six o'clock visit," was announced by a guard. Tina ran to the back room. She was one of the first people there. She went from booth to booth searching for her father. At the sixth booth, she found him. As Tina stood there smiling at her dad, her abuelita picked up the phone to talk to him. Tina couldn't take her eyes off her father. He struggled to hold in his tears as he sat there in his orange jumpsuit. Tina sat on the stool across from her father. She sat with her arms apart longing for a hug. Forgetting where he was, he reached out to give her a hug, but his hands were stopped. He wanted to hold her and all he felt was the coldness of the glass that separated a father from his daughter.
With his hands pressed against the glass, Tina
mirrored
him; she placed her hands opposite his. Still feeling the coldness of
the
glass, he remembered Tina's hands being as soft as pillows, her arms
clinging
like vines around his body and kisses that refreshed his cheek like a
cool
breeze on a hot summer day. He stared into Tina's yes and wondered,
whom
does she run to when she is scared? Who comforts her when she is sick?
Who answers her cries when she cries for her daddy? Will Tina forgive
me
for leaving her? But, the question he really wanted answered was, "Will
I ever forgive myself?"
© Seph Garcia
The drive home from the local hamburger stand seemed to take an eternity, especially when my stomach was angrily growling at me for not feeding it sooner. It didn't help when I seemed to hit every red light in town. I was drowning in the sweet smell of French fries that filled every corner of the inside of my car. There they were, sticking out of the bag that was to my right, sitting on the passenger's seat. It was as though they were calling my name, asking, no, begging me to put them out of their misery and eat them.
It began with one fry; the salt teasingly tickled my tongue and made my mouth water. I savored the flavor of this single, naked fry, as though it was my last dinner, and I was trying to capture this single moment so that I could remember the taste forever. The harder I tried, the harder it was to resist the temptation of grabbing one fry after another. It was as though my angry stomach had just taken over my mind and my body, as I just sat and watched my hand grab each fry and place it in my inviting mouth.
Then, somehow I gained control again, knowing that I had to save some fries because the hamburger beneath them couldn't be fully enjoyed without a few crunchy, salty, French fries drenched in catsup to complement it. However, now, inside the silver foil paper wrapper, the juicy, mouthwatering hamburger was also beckoning me, to indulge in its fresh, tasty contents that would hopefully satisfy my hunger for the day.
It was then that I knew I had been defeated. I could wait no longer. Pulling into the nearest parking lot, I parked, not even in between the lines of the parking place, and at last the hamburger and the fries were going to finally unite with my mouth and then my anxiously awaiting stomach.
I unwrapped the foil on the hamburger and just admired it for a second. I held the hamburger on the tips of my fingertips, yet gently as though it was a fine work of art. My fingers sank into the fluffy, soft bun, leaving fingerprints. I lifted up the top bun bearing the contents of this masterpiece. Then, to my horror, like a slap in the face, I was shocked to find that under the crisp lettuce and tomato, and on top of the mayonnaise, catsup, and mustard, which was on top of the cold, sour pickles that were on top of the juicy, well done, patty of Grade A beef, there were onions, which I am deathly allergic to, and that I very specifically asked to be omitted from my hamburger. Then at that, I was so disappointed, I lost my appetite and drove home, figuring that I didn't need the extra calories anyway.
COMPAÑERO © 1995, El Escritorio